The
experience this time was nothing like it had been the week before,
and Sam wasn't sure why. None of them were.

There'd
been withdrawal, but the symptoms had been significantly less severe
– mostly just nausea, the shakes. There'd been one aborted
hallucination of Dean that had been stopped by his brother's actual
presence beside him, hand on his knee, careful "Sam?" breaking
through, dissipating the angry, hostile version of his brother
scowling down at him.

The
ache, the want, hadn't gone away completely, but Sam felt like he
had a handle on it. And he'd told Dean as much. He wasn't going
to hide or pretend any more.

When
they'd made it through 24 hours of "normal," Dean had called
for Bobby.

"Go
take a shower, Sam," Dean said as the door swung open. "You
stink."

Sam
allowed his lips to twitch upward as he edged past his brother and
Bobby. "You're not exactly a bouquet of roses yourself, man,"
he responded. The enforced time together had eased some of the
awkwardness between them. Though nowhere near all of it.

"Yeah,
yeah," Dean muttered. "Go."

"Sam?"
Bobby's voice forced Sam to make eye contact with the older man.
He braced for whatever restriction or censure was coming. But Bobby
just said, "I put clean clothes on you boys' beds this morning."

Swallowing
heavily, Sam nodded. "Thanks," he managed.

"Yeah.
Well. Don't get used to it. I ain't'cher maid."

Sam
gave Bobby a brief smile and made his way slowly upstairs, aware of
the low conversation following behind him. But he forced himself not
to think about what was being said. Instead he gathered clothes and
kit and towel. Turned on the water and stood under the spray, trying
to keep his mind empty and not think about the "what next."

Bobby
had kept them apprised of what was going on in the world while he and
Dean had been confined. There'd been no indication that anyone had
figured out that they were at Bobby's, and there didn't appear to
be any big signs that something catastrophic had happened on
Lucifer's release. Sam couldn't decide if that was something to
worry about or just to be expected. Because if Sam had learned
anything from his experience with Ruby it was that demons could be
subtle. And that big gestures weren't necessarily the most
effective means of drawing humans into demonic plans.

Sam
dried off and got dressed. It felt surprisingly good simply to be
clean again, and he felt a surge of gratefulness that had tears
pricking at his eyes.

Sam
pressed finger tips against closed lids, trying to stop from falling
apart one more time. Over the last several days he'd wavered
between the odd numbness he'd experienced directly after Lucifer's
escape and an embarrassing fragility that had him ping-ponging
between equally inappropriate reactions to whatever was happening
around him.

But
as much as Sam hated the emotional rollercoaster, it was making him
realize how little
he'd actually felt over the last months. Even when Dean had
suddenly been returned to him, he recognized now that his reaction
had not been normal for him. Yes, there'd been an initial jolt of
relief, joy, confusion. But it hadn't lasted. And what he'd
settled into had been a cold annoyance that Dean was there to
frustrate and question his plans. He'd told himself it was banked
rage, held in check—controlled—emotions tamped down until he
could execute revenge on Lilith.

But
in reality it had been nothing.

Sam
shuddered when he thought about the times he'd snuck out even in
those first days and weeks of Dean's return, leaving his shattered,
alivealivealive
brother alone and unprotected in whatever motel room they were
staying in.

He'd
told himself (and Ruby and Castiel) that Dean was weak, that his
brother couldn't do what needed to be done. But Sam had felt no
compassion
for that weakness. Only impatience and an awful kind of superiority
that finally he would be the one who would be able to make things
right. He'd used Dean's vulnerability as an excuse to justify
his actions. But for all his telling himself he was protecting his
brother, he'd never really done
that. Instead he had repeatedly left Dean on his own to deal with
the fallout from his time in Hell in whatever way he could manage.

Who
was that person? Sam
wondered, in a haze. That
detached, uninvolved guy who had put an iPod in the Impala and sat
through Indiana Jones and asked, with more curiosity than care, what
Hell had been like?

Whoever
he had
been, Sam could see now that even from the beginning, his dealings
with Ruby had been changing him, hardening him, preparing him. Even
before he'd taken that final step off the cliff into drinking demon
blood, he'd been altered by each of the "little" choices he'd
made along the path Ruby had led him down.

Sam
was terrified that there was no going back. That was what Dean had
said, there's no going
back.

But
in a strange way that fear, the despair that threatened at the
thought of that being true, comforted Sam. Because maybe the fact
that he could feel
meant he was redeemable. That he wasn't beyond help, that he might
still be capable of returning to at least some version of himself.
Some form of "Sam" that his brother would forgive and trust and
love again.

Sam
had to admit that there was a tempting numbness in the blanket of
nothing
that came over him from time to time now. He didn't want that,
though. Sam knew he needed to figure out a way to function somewhere
in the middle of the two extremes. But at the moment that particular
life-skill was evading him completely.

"Sammy?"

Dean
had entered the room and was rifling around his duffle for something,
giving Sam a questioning look as he turned to shuffle through the
stack of clothes Bobby had left on his bed.

"Don't
call me that," Sam said without thinking.

Dean
straightened in surprise, confusion on his face at the sharpness in
Sam's tone.

"Ru-
she
called me that," Sam explained hoarsely. I
gave her that. I let her…
He cleared his throat. "Just. Don't. Please."

Dean's
face went blank as Sam stammered out his explanation, uncertainty
giving way to a flash of anger and then weary resignation before
settling into unaffected. "Sure," Dean muttered. "Whatever."

Sam's
heart hurt at the expression on his brother's face, knowing full
well what that careful façade really meant—hurt and exhaustion and
an unwillingness to engage, to fight. Giving
up.

Dean
turned to go, then stopped. He turned around.

"You
know what?" Dean said evenly. "No."

Sam
blinked.

Dean
took a step forward, and Sam fell back slightly in spite of himself,
startled.

"'Sammy'
is mine," Dean said. "And she can't have it."

The
air left Sam's lungs in a rush. "Dean," he whispered.

"No.
I don't care what that skank called you. What you let
her call you when you were…" Dean broke off. A muscle jumped in
his jaw as he struggled for control. "'Sammy' belongs to me,"
he went on. "And you don't get to give that away."

Sam
could only stare.

"You
got it?" Dean glowered.

Sam
swallowed. "Yeah," he managed.

"Good,"
Dean snapped and stomped out.

xxxx

After
Dean was gone, Sam sat down on the bed struggling to figure out what
was going on with his brother. They hadn't spoken much in the
panic room beyond surfacey checking-in kinds of questions or
comments, testing things between themselves, trying to get their
bearings with one another again. And they definitely hadn't
touched on the specifics of what had happened either between them or
with Ruby. But the discrepancy between the message Dean had left on
Sam's voicemail just days before and how Dean was currently
treating him continued to unsettle Sam, leaving him on edge and
confused.

Sam
had heard the anger and the bitterness in that call. The
determination in Dean's "You're a monster" and "There's
no going back."

Where
was that now? That harsh bite of rage and contempt?

In
the last several days there had only been careful wariness and a
detached, but strangely gentle, solicitousness. The lack of any kind
of recrimination from Dean in light of that last message was
incredibly unsettling.

Sam
got up, casting around for the jeans he'd shed in preparation for
his shower. When he found them where they'd been dropped in the
corner, he patted the denim down in a search for his phone. Finding
it in his front pocket, he pulled it out. Sam bit his lip, staring
down at the innocent-seeming gadget. Finally, he pushed the
appropriate button and put the phone to his ear.

"First
saved message."

Sam
closed his eyes, bracing for what was coming.

The
beep sounded, and then there was a moment of dead air. "Hey, it's
m-me." Dean's voice came across gruffly and hesitantly. "Uh,"
Dean cleared his throat, "Look I'll just get right to it. I'm
still pissed. And I owe you a serious beat-down… but…." There
was a long pause. "I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm not
Dad." There was another silence. "We're brothers, you know,
we're family and, uh, no matter how bad it gets that doesn't
change." Beat. "Sammy, I'm sor—" The message ended.

Sam
couldn't breathe.

He
listened to the message again.

Hey,
it's m-me…

Dazedly,
he checked the information on the message. Date and time matched
with when he'd gotten the message notification. He listened again.

Hey,
…

"You
miss a lot of calls over the last few days?" Dean asked. Careful
tease, testing. He had his jeans on, but no shirt, towel around his
shoulders. "Sam?" The tone changed when he noticed his
brother's face.

Wordlessly
Sam held the phone out. With a frown Dean took it, putting it to his
ear. His eyes went swiftly to Sam when the message started. He
lowered his hand slowly when it was over.

"Sam?"
he asked again.

"Is
that…?" Sam could barely speak around the sand in his throat.
"Is that… you? Did you… leave that? For me. After?" Sam
wasn't sure he was making much sense.

Sam
shook himself. "I just… That's not… That's not what I
heard when I … listened … the first time."

Sam
closed his eyes.

"I
was having second thoughts. After our fight. After…" I
almost killed you. After I choked you and told you you didn't know
me… "And I… I got the
message and I… wanted … to listen… to…" hear
your voice, to see if you were calling to make up, like you always
do, like you've always done, taking the first step to make things
better, to… "But I was
afraid…" that this time
it was too much, that you were going to…

"Ruby
told me to listen." What
are you, a 12-year-old girl? Just play it already.
Sam rubbed a hand over his eyes and down his face. "God, I've
been such a moron." He sat back down on the end of his bed.

She'd
pressed every button he had when she came at him the second time
after Dean had died. She'd implemented a strategy that had taken
into account every fear and insecurity he'd ever had. This time
she hadn't questioned his intelligence or his morals, but had
played to them. Had let him think he was in charge, talked
sympathetically about Dean, told Sam he was special, the only one…
She'd given him the feeling that he was in control, had talked
about the greater "good," said he was being
self-sacrificing—protecting Dean and the world…. Given him a
taste of power that had…. He shuddered. Even now he wanted it.

"What
did you hear?" Dean's question broke into Sam's thoughts. He
was seated on the end of his own bed.

Sam
studied his clasped hands.

"Sammy."

Sam
squeezed his eyes shut, wiping in frustration at the wetness that
escaped. "You…" Shook his head. No,
not Dean. "The message…
It said you were done trying to save me. That I wasn't me anymore
and that there was no going back."

He
looked up at Dean. "And when I thought…."

Dean
nodded when Sam didn't finish. "That was when you went ahead,"
he said.

"Zachariah
said they wanted you to kill Lilith and break the last seal." He
paused. "I got enough of a signal that I could call and leave that
message. But I couldn't ever get another one. Maybe they let me
make the call so they could change it…" He shrugged.

"Dean…"

"Don't,
Sam, OK? Let's…" He trailed off, not looking at Sam, not
looking at anything.

Sam
thought he'd never seen Dean look so defeated. And he realized
he'd spent most of his life watching his brother be beaten down in
one way or another. Hell hadn't changed that. It had only
accelerated the process. And done it so well that it had taken Dean
longer than Sam was used to to get on his feet again. Hell hadn't
made Dean weak, hadn't defeated him. It had just taken so much out
of him he hadn't been able to fake it with Sam the way he usually
did. At least, not successfully.

"Dean,"
Sam tried again.

"Sam,"
Dean interrupted him again.

No,"
Sam said. He needed to do this. Dean needed to hear this. "Please
let me say this, OK? I won't say it again. I promise." Even
with that Sam could tell that Dean didn't want to hear it. So he
pulled out the big guns. "I need to do this."

Dean's
shoulders bowed in acceptance. "Fine," he huffed

Sam
drew in a breath, gathering himself. "I'm sorry," he said,
felt an unexpected confidence in doing this. "Not just for… the
Lucifer thing. But for the way things have been between us… since
you got back. I'm sorry for everything I said…." In spite
himself, Sam's voice trembled. "You're the strongest person I
know, and you know me better than anyone ever has or ever will."
He continued his examination of his hands. "I missed you so much
when you died." He paused. Then whispered, "And I was so mad.
That you'd brought me back and then left me. That you'd managed
to save me, and I couldn't do the same thing for you. I… When I
hooked up with Ruby I thought it was the only way to… show that, to
get revenge for what Lilith had done to you. I knew… I knew I had
compromised… everything,
everything you had ever taught me or stood for, but I… I didn't
care. I just wanted her dead." He cleared his throat. "But
then. Then you showed up. And you were alive and an angel
had raised you up for some
purpose God
had for you. While I'd been working with a demon," he said
bitterly. "And I couldn't…. I just couldn't admit that I'd
screwed up. I wanted to be right.
For once, I wanted to be the one who knew what he was doing, who
could fix
something. Not the stupid little brother who wasn't ever good
enough."

"Sammy."

But
Sam was on a roll, and he wasn't going to stop. He shook his head,
plowing on, "More than anything I'm sorry I chose her over you.
That I was so stupid…"

But
Sam couldn't. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm…" Sam could
hear the words falling out of his mouth, but was helpless to halt the
outpouring of remorse and regret. He grabbed at his knees, fingers
curling and uncurling in rhythm with his body as he rocked back and
forth. "I'm sorry…."

Suddenly
Dean was crouched in front of him, hands on top of Sam's, gripping
hard, stopping the convulsive clutching.

"Sammy,
stop. It's OK, it's OK."

Sam
was still shaking his head in denial. "I…"

"Sam.
Stop." One of Dean's hands came off Sam's knee and took hold
of his chin, stilling the back and forth motion. "Stop."

Sam
couldn't disobey.

"Look
at me," Dean went on.

Sam
opened his eyes, lips parting to speak.

"Don't,"
Dean said firmly, giving Sam a quick shake. "Listen to me, OK?
Sam, I need you to listen to me." His voice was gentle, but
implacable, and Sam nodded as best he could in Dean's tight grip.

"Good."
Carefully, watching his brother closely, Dean released Sam's chin
and rested his palm lightly on Sam's knee. He drew in a shuddering
breath and cleared his throat. "I forgive you, Sam. I do."

Sam
felt more damn tears start down his cheeks. It couldn't be that
easy. It couldn't. He started to apologize again. Just to make….

"No,"
Dean said. "You said you were sorry. I said I forgive you. We're
done." He gave his brother a mock-stern stare. "You got it?"

Sam
blinked wearily, still unsure. But he nodded. Because that was what
Dean seemed to want.

Dean
gave a sigh that was pure relief. "Good. Now it's my turn."

And
Sam started to shake his head. No.

Dean's
fingers gripped Sam's face again. Yes.

"Sam,
you got to say what you wanted to say. Let me say what I need to
say," Dean said quietly.

Eyes
on his brother's, Sam nodded his agreement.

Dean
let him go. He unfolded slowly from his crouch on the floor,
groaning somewhat melodramatically when his knees cracked, and sat
down next to Sam on the bed.

"I'm
sorry, too," he offered softly. "I'm sorry that I left you,
that I put you in the position I did. I'm sorry that when I got
back I was so caught up in my own crap that all I could do was yell
at you and hit you when you wouldn't do what I wanted you to do."

"Dean…"

"Don't,
Sam. OK? I just… I don't want to play some messed up game of
"Who fucked up more," with you, alright? We both had our part in
what went down," he said heavily. "I forgave you." He turned
and looked at Sam. There was a sadness and a longing in Dean's
eyes that cut Sam to the quick. "Will you forgive me?"

Swallowing,
Sam nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah."

Dean
sniffed and wiped his face against his shoulder. "OK," he said
hoarsely. Nodded. "OK."

After
a minute, Dean stood, reaching out a hand to grip Sam's shoulder
firmly, slid it down to rest on his brother's arm.

"Well,
I guess since the two of us bookended those goddamn seals, maybe we
should go see what we can do about fixing this whole apocalypse
thing."

Sam
looked up at his brother, the solidity of Dean's hand warm against
his bicep, the steadiness in Dean's quick smile warm against his
heart. He stood.

"Yeah,"
he agreed softly. "Maybe we should."

End.

xxxx

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